A Hitch In Fate
by slyprentice
Summary: Five years on and Nick is still trying to pick-up all the pieces. Luckily for him, he gets a little help. Nick/Gatsby.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: A Hitch In Fate  
**Author**: Prentice (slyprentice)  
**Category**: The Great Gatsby  
**Genre**: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting , Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
**Ship**: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby (eventually), implied Gatsby/Daisy  
**Overall Rating**: Mature  
**Warnings**:references to character death (both permanent and temporary), grief, infidelity, alcoholism/addiction, addiction recovery, child neglect, and suicidal thoughts. Some OOC. Unbeta'd.  
**Author's Note**: _Please note that this is a __**modern au**__ and takes place five years after the events of the what would be a modern version of the novel. Due to this, there will be some obvious changes to tone and the characters. For example, in this fic, instead of ending up in a sanatorium, Nick ends up in rehab. _

**Summary**: Five years on and Nick is still trying to pick-up all the pieces. Luckily for him, he gets a little help.

* * *

The funeral takes place in November; a heavy icy mist blanketing the whole affair and giving the casket an eerie, almost uncanny, glow. From his place in the back of the mourners, Nick fights back against the burn of exhaustion singing in his veins, head lowered in a respectable show of grief. In this miserable dream-like haze, no one will notice that he hasn't shed a tear; that any tears he might have had had dried up a long time ago.

"I can't believe this happened," a woman standing in front of him, some distant relative he's never met before today, says to the woman standing next to her. Moisture clings to the edge of both of their fur-lined coats, the white-gray-black of them strangely gaudy in the blueish dew that hangs over them all. "She was so young."

The woman next to her, pale faced save for her ruby red lipstick, shakes her head in silent agreement. It's the same thing they've all been saying over the last few hours; repeated over and over in the same sort of whispered tone, as if they are worried someone might overhear them – or worse, not overhear them. It would have been funny, if it wasn't so...

Throat clicking under a dry swallow, Nick blinks away the dew from his eyelids, palm itching for the shape of a drink in his hand. He won't have one – hasn't done for months now; the six month sobriety coin heavy in his jacket pocket – but he still wants the _shape_ of one in his hand. The easy comfort of something cool and familiar and satisfying.

But – no, just no. He'd given that up. He'd given that _all_ up.

"Such a tragedy," the woman in front of him says, murmurs really, and Nick thinks she's probably right. It is a tragedy. A horrible goddamn tragedy, just like every other goddamn thing that has happened in the last five years.

Tragedy or not, though, it's almost – poetic isn't the word but it's something very close to it.

"We'll miss you, Daisy."

* * *

The icy mist clings on for days after the funeral, slicking the roads and making an already miserable experience worse. Nick spends most of his time drifting through the silent hallways of one of the Buchanan residences', half-dazed and half-dreading the moment that someone realizes he's still there. He shouldn't – it would be a relief to finally have an excuse to leave and get back to his rundown little apartment – but he knows what will come and he hates the idea of it.

Daisy is – _was_ – the last link to a life that seems like a dream to him now and, though there were times that he hated his cousin to the depths of his soul, he misses her now more than ever. Loves her now more than ever, if only because she is gone and he will never – they will never – there will be no reconciliation. No happy ending, in as much as there can be one, and he thinks, perhaps, that is the greatest tragedy of all.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Note**: In the original Gatsby novel, the Buchanan's only have one daughter, Pammy, who shows up only briefly and who is largely neglected by both her parents. For the sake of this fic, Tom and Daisy end up having another daughter a year or two after Gatsby's 'death' and she is, sadly, just as neglected as her sister. _

* * *

Tom finds him sitting with the girls, a hand soothing down little Pammy's wispy curls. Her eyes, much like her sister's, are red-rimmed and tired. They still don't fully understand why their mother isn't coming back and seem to prefer Nick's company over their father's. He doesn't begrudge them that. Tom is – well, no better than the man he used to be but no worse either, and that, at least, is something that Nick can handle.

"I'll be taking the girls back with me to East Egg in the morning," Tom says after a moment of silent observation. He has a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand, the amber liquid a constant companion these last few days. "Grace has agreed to stay on as their nanny."

Nodding, Nick stamps down on the relief he feels churning in his gut, fingers twitching in an abortive movement in the young girl's hair. Instead, he smooths them over Pammy's forehead, throat tightening when she presses up against him, eyes closing against the sight of her father. Little Maddy, he notices, does the same; mimicking her sister in this, if nothing else.

"I'm glad," he murmurs, tucking both girls closer to him; shielding them, if only partially, from Tom's unwavering stare. They're not scared of their father exactly – Tom is many things, most of them unsavory, but he loves his daughters beyond his own shortsighted arrogance most days– but they're still not entirely comfortable with him either. "Grace will be good for them right now."

And she will be, Nick knows. In spite of being only the latest in a never-ending string of nanny's, Grace Thompson is the first to have lasted longer than a few days, the others having been run off either by Daisy's frivolous demands or Tom's unwanted advances. It helps, he supposes, that Grace is a woman in her sixties.

Tom nods in response, taking a long slow pull from his glass. It's difficult to watch, though it's easier now than it was before. _Twelves steps_, Nick thinks, lips twisting as he looks down at the two girls beside him.

They are, unsurprisingly, asleep now. It's little wonder why. They haven't been sleeping much these last few days, too unsettled by the funeral and the endless stream of well wishers coming to-and-fro, all of them strangers with cold hands and plastic smiles that coo over them like they're broken dolls.

Stomach twisting, Nick shifts, pulling them, if possible, just a little bit closer.

In sleep, they both look like Daisy. Not the one they'd put into the ground just a few short days ago – that creature, for all that she was Daisy, was not the cousin that he wanted to remember – but rather the one that he recalls from...before. Before Tom, before Gatsby, before...everything.

"I want you to come with us," Tom demands, voice suddenly closer, one of his large hand falling onto Nick's shoulder, grip firm and a shade too tight. Leaning in, he squeezes hard, a proprietary sort of touch that makes Nick feel at once both drained and pulled thin like a pat of butter over too much toast. "Back to the house."

"I can't, Tom," Nick says in the intervening silence, something wriggling and slick sliding around in his stomach, in his chest, and making him feel unbearably nauseous. He can't go – doesn't _want_ to go. Not back there, not again. "I have things to get back to – my apartment; my job; the – the meetings with my support group. I – I _can't_ go with you."

For an endless moment, Tom's breath, thick with the cloying fumes of alcohol and something vaguely sour, wafts over his head, brushing along his cheek in a caress that makes him swallow, bile rising hotly against the back of his throat. He knows that smell, even knows the taste of it inside his own mouth. He misses it terribly, but hates it all the same.

"We're leaving bright and early," Tom murmurs after a moment, tone slurring just around the edges. His hand squeezes tighter around his shoulder, waiting until Nick's eyes meet his own. "Just for a few days, Nick. To help me get things settled with the estate."

Mouth opening to protest, Nick's voice catches on the words when Tom squeezes impossibly harder, bones grinding against one another, before he pulls away, slapping Nick's aching shoulder companionably. "I'm sure Daisy would have wanted you to have a few things around the old place anyway. It'd save me the money on postage."

Nodding slowly, reluctantly, Nick's fingers tremble against Pammy's forehead when Tom finally stumbles out the room.

* * *

The ice and mist gives way to snow sometime in the night. A thin blanket of it, just this side of slushy, overtakes the landscape for as far as the eye can see and Nick wishes, not for the first time, that he had the words to write this. He doesn't – not today, possibly not ever – but he wishes it all the same.

He has a writer's soul, a poet's gaze. He would write it all down, every bit of it, if he could. From the cold and the wet to the sound of Daisy's neglected children, both of them moving like perfect little dolls; quiet and tear stained in the early morning snowfall as they climb into the back of one of the town cars their father has arranged to take them all back to East Egg in. Being able to write it all down, he thinks, that much he could have done for Daisy, if only he had the right words to describe how unbearable this is for them all.

Slipping into the car, Nick watches the snow fall for nearly the entire trip, an intolerable all-consuming silence filling up the empty spaces between them.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Note**_: _I've gone back and done some light housekeeping on the previous chapters, mainly just tightening up grammatical mistakes and word choice, so hopefully it'll be more readable in the future. On a different note, this chapter just didn't want to be any longer and, believe me, I tried - there's a small scene between Nick, Tom, and the girls I decided to cut - but hopefully I still got my point across (the point being, of course, that everyone but Tom is having a miserable time).  
_

* * *

The drive back to East Egg is both longer and shorter than Nick remembers, the snow-salted roads filled with pre-holiday traffic even this early in the morning. It's a jolting reminder, seeing all the cheerfully decorated storefronts and fire escapes. It'll be Thanksgiving soon and then, Christmas.

The thought of either sends Nick's stomach roiling, a chill that has nothing to do with the cold racing down his spine. Daisy had never been much for the holidays, too busy swanning from party to party, bedecked and bedazzled in the latest fashion and whatever pretty bauble Tom had seen fit to give to her in apology for their latest argument. Even so, though, there is something starkly depressing about realizing that his cousin will not be with them, not this time.

Hands curling into loose fists, Nick can only watch, stomach aching, as red and gold tinsel glints happily from a string of storefronts; the cheerful crystal-clear twinkle lights edging the windows reminding him of things – and places – better left forgotten.

* * *

The snow has once again given way to an icy mist by the time they reach the house in East Egg. The barest hint of sun, a small patch of silver in an already monochrome sky, has begun to peek out from behind the clouds and a cold wind, just this side of gusting, has begun to blow in off the bay, bracketing the house in a rolling fog that is as bewitching as it is foreboding. Looking at it, Nick cannot suppress a shiver, the long fingered pull of exhaustion tugging in his chest and making it ache.

He's tired, so tired. The drive back taking more out of him – pieces that he doesn't know if he'll ever get back – than he expected but it doesn't seem to have affected Tom, who climbs out of the town car in a fine mood, the hangover he'd been nursing all but gone, chased away by a hearty breakfast Nick hadn't had the stomach to share. The same, however, cannot be said for the girls.

Ashen faced in the wintry gloom that surrounds them, they step out of the car slowly, eyes solemn as they look up at the house. It is – heart wrenching – to watch. They are so young, after all; too young, really, to go through this alone and it's almost too much to bear to think about for too long.

Lump forming in his throat, Nick steps up beside them, face stinging under the whip of another gust of freezing wind. The house looms before them, silent save for Tom's loud footsteps echoing from inside the open doorway, and Nick can do nothing but settle his cold-numbed fingers briefly onto soft golden haired heads, willing them to get through this. It won't be easy – Nick cannot stay forever, no matter what sophomoric hopes Tom might have, and Grace, for all that she is their nanny, cannot erase the loss of their mother no matter how hard she tries – but looking down at them, their sad eyes in sadder faces, he thinks they just might have a chance.

Forcing himself to muster up the barest of smiles, Nick drops his hands onto their shoulders, wishing with a sudden throbbing intensity that he was the kind of man who had all the right things to say. He isn't, never has been, and he doesn't have anything to say about this. Not about the loss of their mother, ethereal thing that she was to them, or the loss of his cousin or the loss of a great deal more besides.

He has no good words inside of him for them and can only hope to pass on his silent unsteady presence and hope that will be enough. If it's not, he can only hope that they will at least take comfort in the fact that they are not alone. That he is hurting just as much as they are, is lost just as much as they are, and is still willing to try to find his way out of this darkness and put the broken pieces of himself back together again.

Fingers squeezing softly, consolingly, around their shoulders, Nick ushers them inside, the soft click of the door closing behind them like a memory-filled anvil to the gut.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days falls into a pattern that Nick isn't entirely sure he can break, the icy fingers of winter finally settling sullenly into cloudy skies and frosty winds. It won't last long – the forecaster is already predicting a winter storm for later in the week, the promise of snow heavy in the air – but he tries to enjoy it as much as he can. This, admittedly, isn't much.

The wind off the bay is too strong to stay outside for any length of time, the sharp sting of it chapping his cheeks and making him wish for a better winter coat, but it gets him out of the house for a while and that's all he really wants. It's nearly unbearable, the thought of being inside all day, and if he were a better man he would have toughed it out, for the girls' sake if not for his own, but he's not and he's already walking the fragile line between falling apart and holding together. It doesn't help that Tom, for all his talk of settling the estate, has yet to make any overt moves to do so, instead spending all his time either talking on his mobile – business, he claims, though Nick has his doubts – or moving around the house with powerful purposeful strides that make it impossible for Nick to stop him for long.

He tries, though. Lord knows he tries. Tom isn't an easy man to catch though, deftly changing the subject whenever Nick broaches it or hurriedly shaking him off with false promise to "talk later". Nick doubts they ever will and tries to plan accordingly.

He can't stay here forever – already he's had to ask for an extension on his leave, promising his boss that he'll do some work from his laptop if he has to stay away any longer – but he isn't entirely sure when he should leave. The girls, pale and solemn things that they are, have been hovering in around him, looking for comfort he's not wholly certain he can give and, although Grace has been good about stopping them from crowding him, it still feels wrong to just leave them. They're hurting, after all, and Nick is not so dried up as to be callous enough not to notice.

He just doesn't know what to do about it. They're not his children, in as much as he cares about them, and what he has to offer them isn't much. He's only six months sober, for god's sake, and a mess besides. What possible good could he do for them – for _anyone_ – right now?

_None at all_, he thinks bitterly, tiredly, as he watches the choppy surf come in off the bay, the sharp bite of wind as good an excuse as any for the stinging behind his eyelids.

* * *

It's two days later that Tom decides that they're going to have a party.

"No, not a party," Tom corrects firmly, lips pulling down into a twist of a frown as he sips his after dinner coffee. A cigar hangs carelessly from his other hand, the smoke filling up the space between them and making the room feel stifling. "Just a small get-together for friends and family; you know, Daisy's nearest and dearest. I thought we could have it here at the house over the Thanksgiving holiday. It's coming up, you know."

For a long, nearly endless, moment, Nick isn't sure what to say. Isn't sure he _wants _to say anything at all. Not with the way he can feel incredulity and what might be the first stirrings of anger clogging up his throat, his mind, and making him curl his hand tighter around the edge of his coffee cup.

Because – _because_ – Tom wants to have a party. A _party_ – no matter what he wants to call it, that's what it is – and he actually thinks it's a good idea. That it's – acceptable – so soon after Daisy's death and on Thanksgiving no less. It's just – it's too much. This is too much.

Hands shakily putting down his coffee cup, Nick stands, intending to – god, he doesn't even know. Storm out, maybe, or just quietly leave the room. Get as far away from Tom and his cigar smoke and this place as possible. Take a long walk in the freezing cold or drown himself ina bottle of scotch-brandy-whiskey, whatever is on hand, because this isn't – it's not – he shouldn't _be here_, goddamnit.

He should have left when he had the chance.

"I need to – "

"Nick," Tom cuts in, voice soft and unexpectedly close, and Nick jerks, realizing he's just been standing there the whole time, unmoving as he stares down at his rapidly cooling coffee cup, and Tom must have gotten up, must have moved, because suddenly there's a presence at his side. Too close for comfort but far enough away that it would be awkward to shy away. "I want you to be there. For the get-together, I mean."

One of Tom's hands abruptly settles onto the nape of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hairs there, a strangely tickling sensation that has a weight behind it – a meaning – that Nick is suddenly too afraid to think about.

"I know that you want to leave soon. You have," Tom's lips twist, frown displaced by something altogether too mocking as he rubs his fingers against Nick's neck. "_Obligations_, but I want you to stay, at least through Thanksgiving. It'll give us all sometime to – say goodbye."

Stomach lurching, Nick nods before hastily stepping away, the back of his neck burning where Tom had been touching him as he hurries from the room, cigar smoke wafting out into the hall after him.

* * *

_**Notes: **Just to be clear on the timeline of this fic since it might be a little muddled: Daisy's funeral took place at the beginning of November with Nick staying a few days after that, only to have Tom decide that he wants them all to go back to the house at East Egg. Nick is just entering his second week and now Tom wants him to stay through Thanksgiving, which is about a week or so away. I realize that most bosses would not be as generous as Nick's but, as you'll find out, Nick has a job that is flexible - he's not a bondsman, anymore.  
_

_On a different note, this chapter was a bear to write. It completely got away from me - I had intended to write about Nick's reactions to being back in East Egg with some telling memories thrown in - but it just didn't want to be written that way. On a positive note, though, with things being as they are, next chapter we'll get our first real hint of Gatsby. :)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The days leading up to Thanksgiving are as overwhelming as they are exhausting. Nick spends most of them dodging out of the way of caterers and decorators, men and women who have descended upon the house like a pack of hungry wolves; gutting and rearranging rooms as they see fit. Turning a house of mourning into some sort of autumnal wonderland, with every spare surface laid with decorative cornucopia, pumpkins, and fall foliage.

Nick finds he has trouble looking at it all. Unsettled by how easily, effortlessly, the pall of Daisy's death has been distorted by forced holiday cheer. By men and women who have no idea how hard it is to look around and see the morbidity of it all.

Even so, however, Nick doesn't try to interfere, instead choosing to back away from the situation and just let it happen, if only so he doesn't have to look at it any longer than he has to and can escape from the sight of it.

His avoidance, so far, hasn't taken him very far. Just to the gardens, mostly, where he can breathe in cold air and be alone for a while, listening to the sound of the wind and the distant, barely perceptible, sounds of the bay. It's – nice to get away, in as much as nice might be the word for it, and Nick uses the time to write e-mails on his phone and compose fragmented pieces of articles he'll have to rough house together later to send to his boss.

It's not a peaceful pastime – there's a wrongness to every second he spends here, inert in his own little bubble of

unhappiness – and it's not particularly satisfying but he'll take what he can get. Eventually, he knows, he'll be able to leave this place, these people, and get back to building the life he's trying to cobble together for himself.

It's not an enviable one, admittedly, but he'll take it over this any day.

* * *

Two days before the party and people start drifting in, boisterous and loud and exactly what Nick has been dreading since the preparations all began. He tries his best to get through it, gritting his teeth around distantly polite smiles and horribly awkward conversations, clutching his glass of sparkling water like a talisman. He's quietly desperate for something more, something that will burn as it goes down and warm the places inside of him that have gone cold, but he won't – he _can't_.

Not for these people, who act like nothing is wrong and that they are actually honoring Daisy's memory by forgetting her altogether. It's not going to break him. _He's_ not going to let it.

Nevertheless, Nick finds his hands trembling, not just from the cold, when he's finally able to make his escape, the sound of braying laughter and tinkling glasses dogging his footsteps until he's finally far enough away. The late evening sky, clear for the first time since they've come here, is dazzling with the last rays of sunset glittering over the water.

It's a beautiful sight, one that seems incongruous to the storm of feelings inside him, but he holds onto it as he makes his way down to the docks, the vice that has wrapped itself around his chest easing the further he gets away from the noise. He knows he'll have to go back soon – Tom has been uncomfortably insistent that Nick be by his side, greeting people as they show-up and pulling him into conversations he has little to contribute to – but he wants to enjoy a few minutes of silence while he can. Even if he finds his heart aching and eyes stinging, as he looks towards the not-so-distant shore down the bay, where he can almost see – can almost imagine –

Blinking, Nick pauses, heart leaping in his chest as he squints hard out into the distance, towards a familiar dock, and tries to make out a figure he can almost swear is standing there. But – but no – that can't be right – unless – unless they've sold the place. It could be the new owner – has to be, really – because any other explanation, any other outcome –

The loud clicking-hum of the dock-light switching on makes Nick jump and look away, the pale green hue from the lamp casting an eerie glow down on him. It's not much light, just enough to chase away the first few fingers of darkness that have crawled their way onto the dock, and he shakes his head at his own skittishness. Turning back towards the bay, he looks out towards the other dock and...

The figure is gone – vanished, like a figment of his imagination – and Nick is left with nothing for company but a pale green light and the uneasy, unhappy feeling that there was never a figure there in the first place_._

* * *

_**Notes**: I just wanted to take a moment to give a big thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed, or put this fic in their favorites. It's exciting and satisfying to know that people enjoy what I write. So, again, thank you! :)  
_


	6. Chapter 6

**_Notes: _**_My thanks to everyone__ for the continued support! I also want to give a special thanks to mrslukecastellan for being so diligent about reviewing. It means a lot. :) On a different note, this chapter contains a bit of foreshadowing towards the end. Poor Nick has no idea what's coming. Also please forgive any grammatical errors; it's never been my strong point.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The next morning Nick wakes later than normal, the wispy edges of his dreams throbbing inside his skull. The sky outside his curtained window, once more a chalky gray, has drained away what little color there is in his lavish surroundings, giving his room a washed-out otherworldly glow. For a short discontented moment, he can only stare unseeingly out the window, the ghostly tendrils of his dreams spilling across his mind in messy vibrant splashes that bleed and blend together in a jumble of sleepy confusion.

He remembers far too much of them unfortunately. Replaying like a reel from an old movie, brilliant multicolored images vie for space inside his thoughts. Marrying themselves in various ways with real memories that are better left forgotten. Dreamy imaginings that taunt him with situations that never really happened, at least not in the way he dreams them, but might have given the right set of circumstances.

_Hindsight_, he thinks, drowsiness disappearing like a waft of smoke as he rolls onto his back and stares up at the coffered ceiling above him. His entire body aches with the pounding in his skull, the dried tear tracks on his face itchy and uncomfortable on his skin. He'll need to get up soon, regardless of how he feels, if he hopes to spend any time with the girls though.

Not something that will be easily done, especially with Tom being so childishly demanding of his time. Entirely insistent that he be there by his side, Tom had demanded that Nick try to enjoy himself with "their guests". He hadn't – Daisy's absence had hovered like an albatross around his neck, weighing him down every time someone had tried to speak with him, oblivious and uncaring that they hadn't once remembered why they were really there.

Apart from that, though, Nick wants to try to be there for the girls', as much as he can be anyway. They have no part in this distasteful and ill-timed party that Tom has decided to host. Shuffled to the side and only remarked on in passing, they have no one but Grace, their nanny, to spend time with and Nick finds himself feeling almost paternal at the prospect of them being – well, not quite forgotten, but close enough to it that it probably hurts all the more.

He doesn't want that for them. Not if he can help it. It would be too cruel, especially so soon after their mother's untimely death, but it won't be easy.

Not for him or for them. They're still virtually strangers to one another, no matter how close they've become in their shared grief, and he's honestly not sure how close he _should_ get to them. He's going to have to go back to his own life soon – very soon; within the next few days if he has any say in it – and he won't be taking them with him.

Wouldn't, even if he could, really, because they deserve better than what he could give them. Could ever even hope to give them. What's more, he's not going to force two young, impressionable, and neglected young girls out of the only home they've ever known because he might be, arguably, the lesser of two unhappy evils in their lives.

He can't do that to them. Won't do that to them. It wouldn't be right.

Quaking hand lifting to rub tiredly at his face, Nick closes his eyes and presses his fingertips hard against his aching eyelids, forcing out the last few traces of tears. He's so tired of crying. Tired of being tired, even, and he knows he needs to start pulling himself together.

For his own sanity and rapidly-becoming-tenuous sobriety, if for nothing else, but his mind feels like a steel trap these days. Replaying events from the past over and over again. Some scenarios morphing and twisting, changing into things that never really happened. Giving him an excuse, at least in his own mind, to play at being able to change what had happened.

But he can't – he knows that – and it pulls at something inside of him every time he thinks about it.

Hand dropping back down onto his chest, Nick sighs and blinks away the spots of color flashing before his eyes. He's not going to think about it right now – any of it. Not his dreams, which still lap at him like a vivid stormy sea in the back of his mind, or the phantom figure on the other dock.

It'll only lead him down a painful road. One that he's not sure he'll be able to weather without a drink in his hand. Instead he'll just concentrate on getting through the day.

That, he's sure, will be challenging enough, especially with his memories so close to the surface of his thoughts.

* * *

The house is quiet when Nick finally makes his way downstairs, the sharp dragging feel of exhaustion pulling heavy at his limbs. Most of the guests, a barrage of men and women that he has trouble remembering the names of, aren't up yet and likely won't be for some time if the few he finds scattered throughout the house in drunken stupors are any indication. Nick can't help but feel relieved.

He isn't up to dealing with them right now and is thankful that he only finds the girls and Grace at the breakfast table. The girls are both still unnaturally quiet, though Grace does her best to fill the silence with simple chatter that no one, not even Nick, needs to participate in. Nick tries to, though.

He wants the girls to see that – him trying – and answers Grace's simple questions with simple answers of his own. They're both careful to keep away from certain topics, of course, and to talk around others the way all adults do when young impressionable minds are around, but otherwise keep the conversation going. It helps, he thinks, that Grace has been around the girls as long as she has and that she actually knew his cousin before she died.

Daisy, he recalls, had never been the poster child for motherhood. She'd been too caught up in her own troubles, her own needs, and the search for something more that she hadn't had much feeling to spare for anyone else. This isn't to say that she hadn't had any feelings for them – Nick can't believe for a moment that Daisy had been so entirely callous to not feel _something_ for the children she gave birth to – but whatever those feelings were had died with her.

It's just another horrible shame, it seems, to add to the pile.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Notes: **This was another tough chapter to write. First it wanted to be long, then it wanted to be short, and then it just wanted to sit there useless to me. Anyway, though, this chapter is all about Nick (finally) realizing that there's a light at the end of the tunnel and his grief won't last forever (which is a strange place to be emotionally). Fair warning, though, things are going to get better before they get worse for Nick (I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.). _

_Once again, I want to send a big warm thank you to everyone who has given this a favorite, a follow, or a comment. I know it sucks waiting for updates and for Gatsby to come along but I promise that it'll be worth it in the end. Nick's never gonna know what hit him! :P_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

No matter his good intentions, Nick only manages to spend an hour with the girls before he's pulled away by a phone call from his sponsor.

A middle-aged divorcee with three estranged children and an unenviable amount of debt, David isn't someone Nick would call a friend or even an acquaintance under normal circumstances, but he still finds himself smiling for the first time in what feels like weeks when he hears the man's scratchy baritone over his mobile's tinny speaker wishing him a 'happy thanksgiving'.

It shouldn't feel this good to talk to him – their conversations are never easy; double-edged with a healthy dose of sympathetic experience and ruthlessly straightforward advice – but somehow it does. It feels like a small taste of normal. A reminder, of sorts, of the life he's temporarily put on hold.

They talk for what feels like only a few minutes, but is actually closer to an hour. Talking – yes, about the steps and the missed meetings and the tremors that sometimes make him _burn_, not necessarily for the taste but the _feel_ of a drink in his veins, but they also talk about _normal_ things too. Such as Nick's writing and the way he's managed to turn it into a career. About the weather, of all things, and how it's been unseasonably warm back home even as the cold has steadily taken hold here.

It's – _nice_, almost unexpectedly so, to be able to talk about things that are so mundane. Nice to be able to not have to _think_ about certain things for a little while. Nice to be just Nick again, and not _Nick_, Daisy's cousin, or _Nick_, Tom's old school friend.

He nearly forgot how it felt – being himself. Nearly forgot that this isn't his life anymore. That he is just plain old Nick Carraway and not some extension of someone else's life.

Just this small taste of normal and he feels – not better or lighter, that would be too much to ask right now – but steadier somehow. Almost like he'll be able to actually get through the next few days without drowning and, honestly, he's not even sure why.

Maybe it's just that he knows now – remembers clearer – that he _will_ actually get to leave this place. That he won't be stuck here forever. That the past will eventually stay just where it is: in the past, where it belongs.

* * *

The rest of the day goes by in a surprisingly easy rush for Nick after that. It seems as though most of Tom's guest are either nursing hangovers or delayed jetlag and sleep for most of the day, occasionally venturing out of the rooms for food and drink or to nose around the house. Nick doesn't mind, his room is on the other side of the house, far away from prying eyes or sticky fingers. Daisy used to call it the 'family wing', her tone sly and playfully intimate, like she'd had some delightful secret to tell, and he finds himself wandering that part of the house, chest aching dully at every unexpected reminder of her.

It feels a little bit like saying goodbye, for all Nick tries not to think about it, and he can't help but wonder at this sudden and new sense of – whatever this is – that's settling beneath his skin. It's not peace or hope or even the first tendrils of acceptance, but rather something that shares the same hazy space between grief and numbness. It's as though he's been holding himself on a knife's edge this entire time; seesawing between holding his breath and exhaling too quickly and suddenly, he doesn't have to anymore.

It's disorienting. There's no other word for it. To suddenly go from feeling _so much_ to feeling – well, not as much. Nick can't even begin to describe it, for all that words are his forte now, and he feels a bit like a cup that has finally overflowed and spilled out its excess and he's not sure how long it'll last.

Regardless, though, he's thankful. Perhaps not in the way he should be – there's some vaguely uncomfortable about all this; he shouldn't be moving on so quickly, not when he'd just woken up this morning in tears – but he's still thankful. Maybe if he doesn't feel as much – doesn't have it all bubbling away just beneath the surface – he can manage to find his footing and leave this place with something very much like hope budding in his future.


End file.
